


Don't Blame Me, Love Made Me Crazy

by verynotconcise



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - High School, Can be read as AU or canon compliant actually, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27686174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verynotconcise/pseuds/verynotconcise
Summary: It’s lunch break.Richie plops on the seat across from Eddie and takes out the club sandwich lovingly prepared by his mother before retrieving a neatly wrapped cookie from his bag. This is normal. This is routine.Routine ends when Richie reaches across the table with his pale long wiry arm and puts the cookie in front of Eddie.5 times that Richie was obvious with his feelings, and 1 time that Eddie was the same.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 18
Kudos: 109





	Don't Blame Me, Love Made Me Crazy

1\. 

It’s lunch break.

Richie plops on the seat across from Eddie and takes out the club sandwich lovingly prepared by his mother before retrieving a neatly wrapped cookie from his bag. This is normal. This is routine.

Routine ends when Richie reaches across the table with his pale long wiry arm and puts the cookie in front of Eddie.

Everyone stops what they’re doing. Conversations end abruptly, smiles drop from their faces. They turn to Eddie, staring bewilderedly at the cookie.

“What is this?” Eddie asks, knowing perfectly well what that is.

Ever casual, Richie shrugs it off, opening the little green square container in front of him. “It’s a cookie.”

The cookie baked fresh for Richie every afternoon to bring for lunch the next day. The cookie baked by the annual Derry Baking Competition winner, Mrs. Tozier. The cookie that Richie hoards all to himself.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, looking up at Richie with disbelief. “It’s _your_ cookie. Why’re you giving it to me?”

“You like it.” Richie says simply. The most obvious thing in the world.

“Hey,” Bill chimes in, leaning towards Eddie, “I l-l-like it, too.”

“Fuck off, Bill.” Richie says without sparing him a glance. “Who do I look like to you? Santa Claus?”

Bill scowls at Richie silently. Ben and Stan trod up to their table, Stan with two hands on the straps of his brown bag and Ben with his haversack slung on one shoulder.

Ben speaks first, offering a warm smile to everyone. “Hey guys,” he says. His smile falters as he catches onto the weird atmosphere hanging over the Losers. “What’s going on?”

“Richie’s giving his cookie to Eddie,” Bev says, poking the straw into the small carton of milk on her tray. “You know, the one he never shares with anyone else. Even when he has extras.” she adds pointedly.

Stan’s eyes darts to Richie. Ben’s eyebrows climb up his forehead, disappearing behind his messy bangs.

“What the fuck is this? Attack Richie day?” Richie says indignantly, swinging his hand around.

“Is this a new thing we’re doing?” Ben asks, “Are we doing food exchanges over lunch?”

“No, Ben.” Stan says flatly, “It’s just Richie. And Eddie.”

Bill nods, “I-It’s just Richie.” he says. His expression is as bitter as it comes.

Among the commotion, Eddie stares at the cookie in question. His hands rests limply in his lap, hearing but not listening to his friends bicker over the table. There’s too many questions floating in his head, but not enough space for them.

To say that he’s overjoyed would be a massive understatement. He hopes the heat on his face isn’t showing. He doesn’t want anyone to see how delighted he is. Doesn’t want anyone to think that this means as much as it does to him.

Play it cool. No one needs to know.

“You know what?” Eddie says. Once again, everyone shuts their mouth, looking at Eddie inquisitively. “Let’s just share this.”

“What? No way!” Richie says.

“Yes way. Break it u-u-up, Eddie. Share the love.” 

“Uh-huh,” Bev says, leaning forward with one hand holding the tip of the milk carton. There’s a barely suppressed smirk lining her lips. “I don’t think mister Tozier would like that, Eddie. He tends to be _particularly_ anal about who he showers his affections to.”

“Particularly anal.” Stan emphasises dryly.

A chorus of groans circle the table. 

“And mister Tozier kindly requests that miss Marsh, and _especially_ mister Stanley fucking Uris, shut the fuck up.” Richie says, ignoring Bill completely.

The group descends into chaos, Richie single handedly arguing against Bill, Stan and Bev at the same time. Ben slides into the space next to Eddie.

“Why don’t you open it?” Ben asks kindly. Eddie looks down and shrugs, opening the wrapper.

Then it strikes him. The wrapper isn’t neat the way Mrs. Tozier’s is. It’s too crumpled for that, having been folded and unfolded many times over.

When Eddie opens it completely, carefully, his suspicions are confirmed by the misshaped cookie.

It isn’t baked by Mrs. Tozier.

The cookie, a little dented inwards in some areas, a little unevenly risen in others, sits on the white wrapper with a big chunk of chocolate in the center. A little too bulky for the consistency Mrs. Tozier always achieves.

“Did you bake this?” Eddie asks Richie incredulously.

“Duh,” Richie says. He looks towards Bill and Bev, “Still wanna try it?”

“I t-think I’ll pass.” Bill says, leaning back. “I just recovered from f-food poisoning.”

Bev frowns at Richie. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

“Since when did I say that my mum baked it?”

“Why didn’t you say that she didn’t?”

They fall into another round of bickering again. In the midst of it, Ben nudges Eddie with his elbow.

“You might as well try it,” Ben says, “If the rest aren’t interested in having a bite anymore.”

Eddie takes a bite.

It’s weird, the way tastebuds work. You taste nothing except the exterior texture at first. Crumbly, buttery, light flavoured stuff that introduces you to what’s to come. It’s dipping your toes into the pool to test the water. It’s dipping the tip of your fork into dubious looking sauces.

Then your mouth explodes in a burst of flavour. In a burst of soft chocolate, sweet and smooth, that comes apart as the cookie breaks open. 

It’s a lot like Mrs. Tozier’s cookies. This is definitely using her recipe as a baseline. But it’s sweeter. A little harder than her cookies, but much sweeter.

A lot like how Eddie always liked his food. Richie would know this, Eddie’s always commented on how he’d prefer it if Mrs. Tozier added more sugar into her bakes.

For an instant, Eddie can imagine Richie in the kitchen. Richie in Mrs. Tozier’s apron, adding more sugar, more milk chocolate chunks into the batter. Richie sliding the tray into the oven, waiting anxiously around the kitchen for the timer to ring. Richie wrapping it in the paper Mrs. Tozier had cut out neatly, with his long fingers tripping over each other. Richie keeping the cookie above the books and cluttered mess in his bag, keeping it whole.

Richie baked it himself.

Maybe this was why he didn’t want Eddie to share it.

Richie catches Eddie’s eye.

“Do you like it?” Richie asks eagerly. His feet are jumping and his eyes are bigger than usual. Excitement twinkles in his blue eyes.

Eddie nods, “It’s really sweet. Thanks, Richie.”

“Yeah,” Bill says, “Thanks a lot, R-Richie.”

“Oh shut up, Bill. Like you’re the one to talk. You’ve done more for Bev than you’ve done for anyone at this table.”

“Th-that’s a lie! I gave everyone the s-s-same amount of goodies last halloween!”

“Yeah, and you gave Bev the _only_ cookies ‘n’ creme Hershey’s bar!”

As Ben and Stan stand watching Bill and Richie bicker, watching Eddie peel off a small piece for Bev to try, Ben turns to Stan.

“I think it’s really sweet too.” Ben says.

“Yeah,” Stan deadpans. There’s a look in his eye that reminds Ben of the way dead fishes look in the wet market, stacked with corpses of their own kind, on a mountain of melting ice. Drip. Drip. Drip. “Really sweet.”

2.

Mike was always known as the budding magician in the group. Eddie’s interest in magic had been sparked one afternoon when an elderly man sitting on a ratty wooden bench near the town hall had asked Eddie to sit down. Eddie sat next to him, careful to keep a polite distance. The man asked if Eddie wanted to see something, Eddie nodded his head cautiously. The man took out a quarter from his deep pants pocket and asked Eddie not to lose sight of it. Eddie nodded.

Then he lost sight of it in between the man’s wrinkled and age spotted fingers.

When he recounted the incident to his friends, Ben’s mouth formed a little ‘o’ shape, equally amazed. Bill offered a diplomatic smile as he stirred his melting vanilla milkshake, the kind you wear when your friend was talking about their garden arrangement and plumbing problems again. Richie laughed and said that the man sounded incredibly shady.

In hindsight, he did. But Eddie couldn’t forget it— the missing quarter that appeared just behind his ear.

Mike was always known as the budding magician in the group. When Richie laughed and Ben’s jaw hung and Bill smiled, Mike shook his head knowingly.

“I’ll teach you,” Mike offered.

“Really?”

“Sure.”

Which brings them to now. Weekly Saturday mornings before they meet the other Losers in the clubhouse. Weekly Saturday mornings when Eddie takes the long detour to Mike’s house, following Mike around as his friend goes about his chores, asking Mike to practice with him.

Presently, Eddie’s sitting on a stool that Mike keeps specifically for Eddie. It’s a little higher than the rest, so that it’s also harder for dirt to land on it. Little things to quell Eddie’s cleanliness-related worries. Mike had always been the most considerate of them.

“Okay,” Eddie says, ruffling the cards in his hands, “Pick one.”

Mike looks up from where he’s squatting next to Eddie. He raises a brow. “I just did.”

“Yeah, but that was just now.” Eddie grumbles, “Pick _another_ card.”

“Yeah? You think you’ve got it now?” Mike says. He stands up slowly, pulling off an oversized glove with a boyish grin. Eddie grins back.

“I think so.”

Mike quirks his brows and draws a card. Eddie collapses the stack. “Memorised your card?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, slot it in somewhere.” Mike pushes his card in the middle of the pile. Eddie shuffles it, fumbling occasionally when his fingers twist together. Mike’s smile broadens as he folds his arms against his chest. Eddie eyes Mike, moving his arm above the stack in circles before he draws a card from the top. “Was your card..” he says, gaze flickering between the card and Mike. “Three of hearts?”

Mike snickers. The edge of his smile turns sympathetic. “Nah.” he unfolds his arms, taking the next card from the top, flipping it over to Eddie. “It was the king of spades.”

“Fuck,” Eddie says, rolling his head. “I swear, I nailed it in school. I tried it with Ben _twice_ and I got it right both times.”

Mike pats Eddie on the shoulder, “It takes practice.”

“Yeah,” a sigh, “I still suck at this, though. I don’t know how you’re so good at it. I’m gonna need so much practice—”

“I’ll do it,” a third voice says. Mike and Eddie turn their heads, looking to the entrance of the shed. There’s someone standing in the light, silhouette growing bigger as he walks forward.

It’s Richie.

Of course it’s Richie.

“I’ll do it,” Richie repeats to Eddie. He flashes Mike a smile, “Hey Mikey buddy.”

“Hey Richie,” Mike says, trying to sound cool but looking obviously confused. “What’re you doing here?”

Richie is here. Richie is here. Eddie can feel the smile creeping onto his face. He can feel his palms grow sweaty. He wants to laugh and say hi to Richie, because Richie is here.

And he’s so happy he wants to explode.

Instead, Eddie says, “Yeah, Richie.” like an asshole. He crosses his arms defensively, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Fuck it. He tried.

“Well, I’m glad you asked. It’s a fine morning, don’t ya think? It’d be a waste to stay in.”

Mike and Eddie glance out of the window at the top of the shed. Dark clouds drag themselves across the sky while the trees lining the perimeter of Mike’s farm start dancing lopsidedly. Drunk on spilled fertiliser. Drunk on stray cigarette buds tossed out of vehicles driving by.

“Bullshit,” Eddie says, “I called you to get ice cream last month, and you said you didn’t eat ice cream.”

Mike raises his eyebrows at Richie.

“Yeah. First of all, it was _eleven_ in the _morning_ , Eds. Who the fuck is awake that early?” Mike glances down inconspicuously at his analog watch. 10:34 AM. “Second of all, _no one_ eats ice cream in the morning.”

“You ate ice cream for breakfast when we stayed over at Bill’s!” Eddie says loudly, exasperated. “You said ice cream was an all-day-all-night meal!”

“Okay, fine. That was like, one day, so what? Do you want my help to practice or not?”

Eddie looks towards Mike who shrugs helplessly, picking up a metal pail of chicken feed in one hand. “Maybe he can give it a go.”

“ _Thank_ you, Mike.”

He doesn’t really want to practice with Richie, because he’s afraid he’ll fail. He’ll fail and Richie will laugh at him. He doesn’t want Richie to laugh at him.

He needs to get it right this round.

Stakes are high when Eddie starts reshuffling the deck in his hands before spreading it facing outward to Richie. 

“Pick one, asshole.” Eddie says stiffly with a trace of unhappiness.

Richie does.

“Memorise your card.”

“Right.”

“You can, uh, inspect it if you want to. I didn’t mark it or anything.”

“Didn’t think you did,” Richie says, not bothering to check the edges. Eddie flusters.

“Anyway.” Eddie collapses the pile into a stack, “Slot it in anywhere.” Richie slides the card in wordlessly. Eddie shuffles the deck, slightly clumsier than he did with Mike. Mike stands between them with an amused smile on his face.

Again, Eddie draws circles over the deck with his hand. He expects Richie to make fun of him now, but Richie doesn’t. He simply stands there with his arms resting at his sides, waiting patiently. This makes Eddie even more jittery.

Finally, Eddie stops shuffling. He picks up the first card on the pile, eyeing Richie anxiously. “Was your card tens of hearts?”

“Sure,” Richie says, “Tens of hearts for you, Eds.”

Eddie flushes, turning away sharply. “Stop fucking around, ass—”

“Yeah, it was.”

“Huh?”

“Tens of hearts, yeah, That was my card.”

“Really nice, Eddie.” Mike claps Eddie’s shoulder, walking off.

“Wait, where’re you going?” Eddie calls after Mike, “Aren’t you gonna teach me the one you showed me last week?”

“Nope, I’ve got some chickens to feed.” Mike says, walking backwards. “Besides, didn’t you say you needed practice?”

“Yeah, but—“

Mike nods towards Richie, “You’ve got a practice partner.”

Richie adjusts his glasses, wagging his brows at Eddie. Eddie cringes, “Ugh, are you serious?”

“Nope, I’m Mike. Remember?”

“Heeey,” Richie says, pointing at Mike, “He _gets_ it! Gimme a five Mikey!”

“You’re really gonna abandon me here with Richie?!”

“Abandon? You said you needed practice— I’m practice!”

“You’re gonna distract me from it, asswipe.”

“Distract you? _Ooh_. You think I’m distracting? Wait— is it like, the good kind of distracting? Or like, the bad type?”

Mike kicks the door of the shed shut behind him. Strong winds were whistling while thunder rumbled through the rolling clouds. Despite that, Mike can still hear Eddie and Richie’s fading bickering noises. He chuckles to himself, shaking his head, walking away with the pail of chicken feed swinging dangerously in one hand.

Maybe he can finally get some chores done now.

3.

It’s one of the last days that they can swim in the quarry before the cold makes it unbearable.

Eddie is floating in the water, drifting away from the group. Where the little waves will take him, he doesn’t know. For now, it feels good not to know.

It feels good to drift.

His arms and legs are spread, but only his tummy and face are abreast. Water sloshes over the delicate skin of his torso occasionally. He looks up at the cloudless sky. Wisps of white over another quarry of blue reflected overhead. A blue mirror of the green water he’s soaking in.

He closes his eyes. Laughter from his friends sounds worlds away. A tape recording of rehearsed laughter with genuine emotions. Loud splashes, more waves, water rides up his torso before spilling apart.

It feels good to think about nothing.

The sun is beginning to inch closer to the top. The shadow casted on him by the cliff is disappearing. Heat licks at his face. Tomorrow his nose will be a little redder than usual.

That is tomorrow’s problem.

Ripples of water begin breaking against his body more frequently. He hears her voice before he sees her.

“Hi Eddie,” Bev says.

The screen of darkness behind his eyelids gives way to blinding light as he opens his eyes slowly. A few seconds later, he can see Bev’s eyes staring at him. He smiles.

“Hi Bev,” he says, “What’re you doing here?”

“Could ask you the same question.”

Eddie snorts, “Don’t know. Feels good to just float here.”

“Hmm,” Bev hums in reply, “Got anything on your mind?”

“No, not really.”

“Not really implies that there is still something going on in here,” she taps Eddie’s forehead gently, chuckling to herself. Eddie loves the sound of her laughter, quiet but sharp. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing, really.”

“Just because I know you, Eddie Kaspbrak, I don’t believe you. You’re such a terrible liar, you’re almost as bad as Ben is.”

“That’s just rude.”

“It’s the truth,” Bev shrugs, “So what’s on your mind? Or should I say _who’s_ on your mind?”

Eddie freezes. His heart begins pumping harder, he can hear it echoing in his ears.

Oblivious to Eddie’s panic, Bev continues, “Is it a certain girl in our History class?”

Eddie freezes up further, but for a different reason.

“What’re you talking about?” Eddie asks. There’s the beginning of a frown on his face.

“You mean _who_ I’m talking about?” Bev says, giving Eddie a knowing look. Seeing that Bev isn’t quite hitting the mark, Eddie wonders how knowing that look is afterall. “Don’t make me spell her name out for you.”

“No, seriously. What are you talking about?”

She rolls her eyes, tilts her head the other way. “The girl you’re always staring at in class? The one who bumped shoulders with you before class started? She said hi to you.”

Eddie waits for Bev to elaborate. This isn’t ringing any bells for him.

Bev sighs exasperatedly. “I’m talking about Betty Amberson.”

“Betty Amberson?” Eddie asks, baffled, “I don’t stare at Betty Amberson in class. Why— why would I stare at her?”

“You tell me,” Bev says, leveling him a look, “You’re always looking at her. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“What?” Eddie says again, but it isn’t a question. Since _when_ has he been—

Oh.

A thought occurs to him.

“Fucking hell, Bev,” Eddie groans, “I’m not staring at _her,_ I’m staring out of the window. If she wasn’t sitting there, if some other dude were sitting here, would you think I was crushing on him too?”

“That depends on which dude you’re talking about.”

“Oh, haha, very funny, Bev. Just because I’m not straight doesn’t mean that I crush on every single guy there is.”

“Yeah, I _know,_ ” there’s a small growl in her voice, “I was just saying, you seemed pretty interested in Betty. I wouldn’t blame you, you know? She’s cute. She’s got big eyes behind her glasses and a sweet smile.”

“Who’s cute?”

Bev and Eddie look off to the side. Richie’s just a short distance away, looking blankly at the both of them.

His spectacles reflect sunlight in that swipes across the scratched lens. It makes it difficult to hold eye contact with Richie.

“Richie.” Eddie says.

“Who’s cute?” Richie repeats. His voice is carefully curated. There’s no hint of anything in it. It’s words in Richie’s voice, nothing more, nothing less.

It’s alien.

Bev tucks a wet lock of hair behind her ear, looking apologetically at Eddie. “Oh,” Bev laughs. It’s not the same laugh as the one earlier. Awkward. Forced. “No one, really. Just a new classmate in our History period.”

“Well,” Richie says. His lips curl in a poor imitation of a smirk. “Aren’t you gonna tell me all about that cutie?”

Bev looks between Eddie and Richie before sighing, “Betty Amberson. She’s new in Derry.”

“Yeah,” Eddie adds, “Her family moved to Derry last month.”

Richie looks down into the murky water. “Oh,” he says. For someone who’s always had words to say, he’s awfully quiet now. “I don’t think I’ve seen her before.”

A long moment of silence passes.

“Is she really cute?” Richie asks in a low voice.

Bev huffs, “It doesn’t matter. I was just teasing Eddie, that’s all.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says quickly. There’s a weird tension hanging over their heads. Eddie suspects it has to do with Richie’s souring mood. “She’s just a classmate, Richie.”

Richie bows his head, enough that Eddie can see his eyes clearly now.

Richie is upset.

Is Richie upset at him? Did Eddie say something? It’s funny because Eddie doesn’t think that he did anything— anything that he can recall. But it feels like he’s at the center of Richie’s unhappiness.

Richie is upset, and Eddie doesn’t know what to do.

“We should go and see what Mike is doing over there,” Bev says, nods her chin at the group further down. “I think he’s about to show us a new trick.”

“Okay.” Richie says stiffly. Despite Bev being the one who suggests it, Richie turns around and starts swimming back first. Eddie doesn’t get the chance to say anything, and it crushes him. His lungs suffocated under a heavy weight.

“He’s upset,” Eddie mumbles, “Why is he upset?”

Bev looks at Eddie with something akin to pity in her eyes. It’s a cryptic type of pity. Pity for him about something he knows not of.

“Oh, Eddie,” Bev says softly before she swims away as well.

4.

Gym period. The one period that everyone hates, but no one hates it more than Eddie. He’s never allowed on the field, on the court. Bench boy. Ball boy. Eddie has spent years watching other people run, watching them scrape their knees and leave pieces of their skin all over the place.

But never him. No. He’s an occupational hazard to any coach. That’s what happens when your mother is _the_ Sonia Kaspbrak.

He knows that it’s almost impossible for him to play in gym period, but he can’t help it. The substitute is in today, and he’s got to try.

Eddie sneaks in with the large crowd, hoping that his height will finally do something for him. He’s about a foot into the court when the substitute coach blows his whistle. The coach whips out an arm with a finger pointing to the bleachers.

“Out.” he says. Before Eddie gets to open his mouth, the coach says, “You know you’re not allowed on the court, Kaspbrak. That’s the rule.”

Richie catches the crestfallen look in Eddie’s eye. He steps forward, “But—”

“Unless you wanna run laps, mister Tozier, I’d suggest you get your ass in the court.”

Richie closes his mouth. There’s a first for everything.

Then he shoots Eddie a look. No. Not _a_ look, _the_ look. The one that says he’s got an idea. The one that ended up with Eddie getting grounded for a month.

Eddie’s stomach churns. It twists itself into knots that a boy scout could only hope to achieve by the time that they’re retired and rocking on a chair in their front yard.

Oh, god, please don’t—

“Don’t worry, Eds,” Richie says. Eddie begins to worry. A lot. “I’ve got an idea.”

Jesus.

“Richie—”

“Do you trust me?”

With my fucking life, Eddie thinks.

“What kinda fucking question is that?” Eddie says instead. “The last time I trusted you, I ended up falling through the floor and snapped my arm like a fucking kitkat.”

“Okay,” Richie says slowly, conceding. “But to be fair, that wasn’t _my_ fault. It was the fucking clown’s fault. And to be even more technical about it, it was Bill’s fault that we went there in the first place.”

Well.

Richie’s not wrong. Everything _was_ kind of Bill’s fault. But it’s an open secret. It’s one of those things that everyone knows, but no one can say aloud. Saying it makes you the asshole, even if everyone’s thinking the same thing.

Richie’s never been afraid of being the asshole though. He’s honest about his thoughts at least, something Eddie’s always liked about Richie.

Coach blows the whistle. Richie winks at Eddie.

“See you in a bit.” Richie says. He gives Eddie a half-salute before running to the center of the court, joining the crowd. Eddie retreats with slouching shoulders. He takes his honorary seat by everyone’s water bottles. The guardian of the bottles. Protector of hydration. Eddie Kaspbrak. By now, all three were synonymous to each other.

Eddie watches as the whistle blows again and the crowd parts like the Red Sea, each side picking up a bunch of soft dodgeballs laid along the demarcating line. Coach backs up, looks between both sides and blows his whistle again.

Time to begin beating the shit out of the other team with balls.

Eddie leans down, planting his chin on his knees. He’s about to sigh, something long and suffering, when Richie yells in pain.

Eddie looks up.

A ball bounces off Richie’s face like it’s a trampoline made for this purpose. Everything after happens in a slow sort of sequence. Richie’s face slants upwards, spectacles flying off to the side, a yell of pain, and a descent backwards landing butt first on the semi-polished gym floor.

Eddie straightens himself as the gym goes quiet.

His heart stutters. Ice runs through his veins.

“What in the goddamn hell,” coach says, marching up to Richie. Everyone closes in around Richie, and when Eddie rushes there, he’s thankful for his small stature that allows him to squeeze through the gaps, to surface at the forefront of the shitfest unfolding.

Richie groans, picking up his spectacles.

“Tozier! My god, what happened? Are you hurt?”

Richie groans again, pushing himself upwards. A classmate helps Richie up gently. Richie looks around, gaze catching on Eddie, before he looks back to their coach.

“I’m fine,” Richie says. A trail of red promptly crawls down his nose.

“Jesus, kid.” coach says, “You’re bleeding.”

“I am?” Richie says. He looks down at his nose, eyes going cross-eyed, rubs across the thick liquid inching down his face. He stares blankly at the blood smudged across his finger for a long moment. “Holy fuck, I _am_ bleeding.”

“Watch your fucking language, kid. This may be gym period but I’ll be damned if I let a single one of you midgets start spouting shit from your mouths.”

So much for language.

“Richie,” Eddie says worriedly, “Are you alright?”

“No,” Richie replies, “I’m bleeding from my nose. My nose is bleeding.”

“Alright, cut the crap. Kaspbrak! Help Tozier to the nurse’s office. Don’t want him bleeding all over my floor. The rest of you, get back to your places. This ain’t a Disney movie.”

The crowd disperses while Richie and Eddie walk out of the gym together, Richie with his arm hooked around Eddie’s shoulder and Eddie with an arm wrapped around Richie’s waist. They hobble out of the door for a distance along an empty corridor before Eddie asks, “Where else are you injured?”

Richie mulls over it briefly, “Nowhere.”

“What.” Eddie says. It’s not a question, it’s a statement.

Richie shrugs, “I’m not.” he says easily, then thinking better of it, he says, “I mean, yeah, my nose is bleeding and it’s gonna be painful for a while. But otherwise, I’m good.”

“Then why are you limping?”

“Theatrics.”

“Seriously?” Richie nods. “You are such a turd.” Eddie says, dropping his arm. He hesitates, doing a quick once over before asking quietly, “So you’re okay?”

“Yeah, Eds. I just said that.”

“Asshole.”

“Besides, my plan worked, didn’t it?”

“What?” _Now_ it’s a question.

Richie looked at Eddie. With a thin line of red slightly smudged across his pale face, Richie winked with a stupid grin. “My keep-Eds-company-during-gym-period plan, of course.”

Eddie stops walking. He stares at Richie for a long time.

He doesn’t know if he should be horribly flattered or horribly mortified. He decides on both.

“ _That_ was your plan? Getting hit in the fucking face?”

“Okay, getting hit in the face wasn’t part of the plan. But getting out of the gym was.”

“Fucking hell, Richie. That’s a stupid plan.” Eddie says, annoyed, “I can’t believe you’d let yourself get hurt to keep me company. What the fuck, Richie. That’s— it’s insanely dumb.”

“Come on!” Richie says, dragging his words, “It was _insanely_ effective.”

Eddie glares at Richie, “It was not.”

“Why not?” Richie says, bumping shoulders with Eddie. “I’m here, you’re here. We’re out of class. Isn’t it a success by all measures?”

“You are such an idiot, Richie.” Eddie says.

“Yeah, well. I thought I was pretty genius back there.”

Eddie sighs, “You even broke your specs.” he steps forward, sliding Richie’s glasses out. The tape around the broken frame, now a permanent feature of Richie’s glasses, has come loose.

“It’s always broken.” Richie points out.

“Yeah. And it’s broken, _again_.” Eddie grumbles. He’s removing the tape, positioning the frame, repositioning the frame, repositioning the frame until he gets it right. He tapes it back and slides it back onto Richie’s face.

Eddie’s fingertips graze Richie’s cheekbones. Richie blinks, mouth agape. Eddie pulls back, shaking the weird tingle off his hands.

They stand in silence for a moment, looking back at each other, looking away, looking back.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Eddie says softly, “It worked. But it was dumb.”

“Okay. Fine.” Richie agrees after a moment of pause.

“Okay,” Eddie says. There’s a smile intruding into the frown on his face. He finds that he rather likes it, because Richie is smiling back at him, too. “Come on, asshole. Coach says I’ve gotta help you to the nurse’s office.”

Even though Richie doesn’t need the support, Eddie slides his arm around his waist as Richie holds onto Eddie’s shoulder. They continue hobbling down the empty hallway, shoes squeaking against the tiles.

5\. 

When Eddie gets out of school, his bicycle stands unevenly, sinking backwards like it’s a hundred and one and ready to be six feet under.

“Fuck.” Eddie says. He rushes to his bicycle, futile as it is, examining the damage. A small but visible crack in the side. It’s a hairline, it’s an inch, it’s _insidious_ is what it is. He should’ve known that there was no fucking way that his aged tyres could survive that pothole that the Derry town committee should’ve gotten down to fixing months ago.

It is what it is.

“That looks bad,” Richie remarks, stating the obvious. Eddie looks over his shoulder, fixing Richie with an unamused frown.

“No, it’s fucking awesome,” Eddie snaps, “Fucking peachy.”

“Woah, chill out on the F-bomb, Eds.” Richie says, as if he’s not the one dropping ‘fuck’ into every part of a sentence he can get away with. An adverb, a conjunction, an adjective. With Richie, fuck becomes a preposition.

It’s fucked is what it is.

“How am I gonna get home now?” Eddie groans, slapping his forehead. He blows out a shallow breath.

Richie adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder before pushing back his glasses. “I can give you a ride.”

Eddie casts Richie a glance, “Richie, your bike’s not gonna be able to carry us both. I’d probably drop off halfway through with your rear rack.”

“My what?”

“Your back seat.”

“Oh.” Richie says, “Don’t worry, you won’t.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve ferried Stan on my bike recently. If you haven’t noticed yet— he’s still in one piece. And alive. Not happy with me, but that’s his own problem.”

Eddie’s going to ignore the fact that Stan coming out of that bicycle ride in one piece was somehow a bigger deal than him being alive. “Wait— how did you get Stan to let you do that?”

“He lost a bet.”

Eddie leans in, curiosity piqued. “What kinda bet?”

Richie averts his gaze, adjusts his glasses, pinches the broken frame under the tape together. “Oh, you know,” he says. Eddie doesn’t know. “This and that.”

“Right.” Eddie says, because there is nothing else to say. Stan has ridden on it and came out alive. Now there’s really no reason he can decline Richie’s offer.

It’s either that or walk home in the cold.

Richie unchains his bicycle, lifting the kickstand with the heel of his foot. He wears his bag in front of his chest, getting on the saddle easily. Eddie jabs at Richie’s rear rack again, just in case.

“It’s not gonna fall off, Eds. Geez.”

“I’m just making sure it isn’t. I don’t have good insurance, okay? My mum makes sure I know that.”

“Yeah. But you’re not gonna fall off, okay? I’d bet one of my balls that you’re gonna come out of this okay.”

“One ball?” Eddie snickers, climbing onto the back seat. Richie looks over his shoulder as Eddie hooks his hands onto them, winking obscenely at Eddie.

“One ball.” Richie confirms.

And then they’re off.

Eddie screws his eyes shut at first, feeling the seat under him wobble like a drunken man attempting to walk a straight line. A few seconds of terror pass, the wind cuts his cheeks as they sail down the shallow slope.

As Eddie opens his eyes, tentative, he is greeted with waves upon waves of orange and brown and yellow washing by. The sky is already putting on its purple overcoat. The wind exhales, an invisible string ties a handful of brittle yellow leaves together. They rustle against each other as they flutter upwards, the crisp sound lasts only a split second before it’s swallowed by the wind.

Against the darkening sky, they look like stars that are returning home.

Eddie digs his fingers past Richie’s bag straps into his bony shoulders, resting his cheek against the broad expanse of his back. Feels the ridges of Richie’s spine, feels the erratic beat of Richie’s heart, the smell of Richie’s fabric softener masking the light smell of sweat.

Richie fixes his gaze forward, but his fingers clench and unclench rapidly on the handles.

They make a sharp turn around the corner, riding over a manhole cover that rattles in place. It’s familiar, it’s unfamiliar. Being on Richie’s bicycle makes the mundane route they’ve cycled a million times over something exciting.

Being with Richie makes everything exciting. Makes anything exciting.

Richie swerves past the traffic light, coasting down the avenue before Eddie’s street comes into view. Uniform houses that sit next to each other, a dog barking uncontrollably, a car driving by before pulling into the driveway of a house all the way down.

Richie slows down just before he turns the corner again. Eddie’s mother doesn’t like him. That Tozier boy will corrupt you, she says. My Eddie bear doesn’t need friends like him, she says.

She’s wrong. Eddie needs a friend like Richie. He makes the world a better place even on the worst days.

Especially on the worst days.

“And,” Richie announces with fake grandeur in his voice. The bicycle rolls to a quiet stop. A shuddering last breath before the line goes flat. “We’re here.”

“Yeah.” Eddie says. He doesn’t expect to hear regret in his words. Richie looks back, his face open in surprise.

Eddie gets off quickly.

“Well, anyway, told ya, didn’t I?”

“Told me what?”

“You wouldn’t die on my bike.”

“What? Do you want an apology or something?”

“Nah,” Richie waves it off. He pats his bag between his legs nonchalantly. “I had fun. We should do this again.”

Richie had fun. They should do this again.

Eddie would sit on the back with his arms around Richie’s chest. They’d ride around Derry, occasionally tagged by the fragile leaves that chase them around the neighbourhood. They’d experience old roads for the first time again. Eddie would dig his fingers into Richie’s ribcage next time, and he’d hear Richie wheeze a little when he chuckled.

And they’d do all of this again.

The cookie unwrapping. The magic practices. The little wave across the gym court, small gestures that keeps Richie next to Eddie even if they’re physically apart.

And the riding around Derry together. They’d ride around town over and over again. Watch the water flowing down the Kenduskeag move more aggressively as winter approaches. Watch as the sun sinks below the uneven skyline made by their stout buildings. Eddie would press his cheeks into Richie’s back and pretend that they were closer than they could ever be in a town like this.

And they’d do all of this again. They had fun.

They had fun, but it hurt. It hurt because this was all Eddie ever wanted.

And they’d do all of this again.

“What are we doing, Richie?” Eddie asks quietly, looking at a jagged line across concrete cutting across them. Richie on one side, Eddie on the other.

“Huh?” Richie says, pushing his glasses up, “What do you mean?”

“I mean— what are you doing, Richie?” Eddie asks in an even lower voice. The wind carries his whisper away immediately.

This time, Richie catches Eddie's meaning. He looks down as well.

“I don’t know,” Richie admits in a small voice.

A car cruises down the road past them, exhaust fumes fanning in their direction. It’s a thin gray drape that dances between them.

“You gotta stop doing it, then.” Eddie says, “Whatever it is that you’re doing. You need to stop it.”

Richie looks off to the side. His lips are twisted, pressed together in a downturned line.

“Do you really want me to?” Richie asks tightly.

“Yes. It’s not fair, Richie.”

Richie looks back sharply, furrows his brows. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that it’s not fair, Richie. You’re doing things that you don’t mean. You’re going out of your way to be nice to me, and it’s not fair to me.”

Richie’s frown deepens.

“I don’t understand what you mean, Eds..”

“Why are you doing this?” Eddie sighs, wiping a hand down his face in resignation. “Why are you _really_ doing this, Richie? You know how I feel, and if this is all just a joke to you—”

“Wait, what?” Richie interrupts. He looks back, blue eyes duller than usual. It’s a gem that’s caked in a layer of dirt. It’s hard to look at, knowing how it should look.

“What?”

“How you feel? Wait— I know how you feel?” Richie asks, “What do you mean? Like, know how you feel? Do you mean that..”

Richie trails off, too nervous to continue. Eddie understands. He can feel his chest constricting, his heart ballooning in place.

It’s difficult to breathe.

“I like you, alright?” Eddie says. His voice breaks. “I like you, and you keep doing all this—” he gestures towards the bicycle, “The cookies, and then letting me practice magic with you. And when you let yourself get hurt in gym— why are you doing this?”

“You like me.” Richie echoes in disbelief, touching the side of his face with his fingertips absentmindedly. In a split second, his expression clears. His eyes snap up to look at Eddie, and the fog is gone. It’s striking. It’s piercing. “Really? You like me?”

Eddie finds himself unable to answer. His mouth has run dry.

“Because I like you too, Eddie. I mean— I’ve always liked you, and I really wanted you to like me back. That’s why..”

Eddie’s mouth has run dry because all the liquid has gone to his eyes. It’s difficult to fight the prickling feeling. He blinks his eyes rapidly.

“Really?”

Richie nods, “Yeah, Eds. I mean, I thought it was obvious. I really like you, man. All I ever wanna do is keep making you smile and laugh. That’s why I don’t want to stop doing them. I wanna make you happy.”

They had fun. They would do this again.

Eddie would sit on the back with his arms around Richie’s waist. They’d ride around Derry, occasionally tagged by the fragile leaves that chase them around the neighbourhood. They’d experience old roads for the first time again. Eddie would dig his fingers into Richie’s stomach, letting his fingers ghost over sensitive skin. Eddie would hear Richie shriek as they fly across the junction of Derry’s town hall, as they coast down the road past the Bowers’ and Hanlon’s farms and out of Derry. They’d see the sunset below the horizontal line of the roads ahead of them, bloody but beautiful.

Eddie steps across the jagged line on the concrete. He grabs Richie’s hand in his own. It’s weird, Eddie thinks, how nicely their fingers slot into the spaces of each other’s hands.

It’s warm.

“Okay, we can do this again.” Eddie laughs breathlessly. Richie beams at him. It’s goddamn beautiful, how clear Richie’s eyes are. “But we’re fixing your rear rack first.”

“My what?”

“Your back seat.”

“Oh,” Richie shrugs, squeezes their clasped hands. “Don’t worry, you won’t fall off.”

“It’s gonna happen, Rich. It’s like, a final destination movie in the making. I can feel it.”

“Then you’ll just have to hold onto me tighter the next time.” Richie says, “If you fall, we’ll both go down together.”

“That’s such a dumb fucking idea,” Eddie says, but Eddie can’t say that he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t. He finds that he likes it, actually. He stares at their intertwined fingers and lets himself smile this time.

+1

It’s lunch break.

Richie plops on the seat next to Eddie and takes out the club sandwich lovingly prepared by his mother before retrieving a neatly wrapped cookie from his bag. This is normal. This is routine.

Richie reaches across with his pale long wiry arm and slides the cookie in front of Eddie.

This is still normal. A new, bastardised kind of normal in recent weeks. But normal, nonetheless. This is still routine.

Routine ends when Eddie beams at Richie, when Eddie kisses the corner of Richie’s lips, landing more on his cheek than his lips.

Everyone stops what they’re doing. Conversations end abruptly, smiles drop from their faces. They turn to Eddie, staring bewilderedly at him and at Richie, whose face is reddening quickly.

“What was that?” Bev asks, knowing perfectly well what that is.

Ever casual, Eddie shrugs it off, opening the wrapper of the little cookie in front of him. “It’s a cookie.”

“No, not that.” Bill says. Unsurprisingly, his stutter disappears when it’s needed most. “You kissed him. You kissed Richie.”

Eddie shrugs. “It is what it is.”

Bill and Bev continue staring at Eddie silently, looking at each other bemusedly. Ben and Stan trod up to their table, Stan with two hands on the straps of his brown bag and Ben with his haversack slung on one shoulder.

Ben speaks first, offering a warm smile to everyone. “Hey guys,” he says. His smile falters as he catches onto the weird atmosphere hanging over the Losers. “What’s going on?”

“Eddie just kissed Richie,” Bev says, not quite believing it herself. “On the cheeks.”

Stan’s eyes darts to Richie. Ben’s eyebrows climb up his forehead, disappearing behind his messy bangs.

“Mind— mind your own fucking business, guys.” Eddie stammers. Richie snaps back to himself.

“Yeah, guys,” Richie adds, throwing an arm around Eddie. “Mind your own fucking business.”

The group bursts into a round of petty quarrels. Fingers were flipped, eyes were rolled. In the midst of the commotion, Ben turns to Stan with an amused smile.

“Well,” Ben says, “I think it’s really sweet.”

“Yeah,” Stan deadpans. There’s usually nothing about his face that gives away what he’s thinking about. Ever expressionless, a blank canvas. He’s the epitome of what a resting bitch face looks like.

Except that this time, the corner of his lips twitch upwards.

“Really sweet.”

+0.5

“Bet you that I won’t confess to Eddie.”

“I’m not betting anything with you.” Stan says, not bothering to look up from his phone.

The last school bell rings. They’re waiting for Ben before they go to the library for their Physics project. Ben’s the most familiar with the library. The sky alternates nicely between being sunny and shady. Doesn’t make much difference since they’re standing under a tree. But it’s still nice.

It’s cooling.

“Why not?”

“The number of reasons on the ‘why not’ list is never ending. How about you give me one reason to bet with you?”

“Because I won’t confess to him otherwise.”

Stan rolls his eyes. He pockets his phone, folding his arms. “That’s lame, Richie. Even for you. Just do it already, you know how he feels.”

“I know I should,” Richie sighs, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his crooked nose. He ignores the last part of Stan’s sentence. “I just don’t want anything to change between us, you know?”

“How do you expect to get together with him, if you don’t want anything to change?”

A cloud moves over and sunlight passes through again. Richie pauses in thought. “You know what? You’ve got a point.”

It’s Stan’s turn to sigh. “It’s going to be fine. No matter what he says, he’s not going to push you away. You know that.”

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

“How do you plan to do it, though?”

“Do what?”

“Confess.”

Richie hums, scratching his chin with narrowed eyes. “I don’t know. Haven’t thought much about it, actually.”

“Figures.”

“Fuck off, Stan. Got any brilliant ideas to share?”

“Actually,” Stan says smugly, “I do.”

“What?”

“Give him something to eat.”

“Something like.. what?”

“I don’t know. Use your imagination, Richie.”

“Huh,” Richie says, dazed, still rubbing his chin. “Okay. Right.” a pause, “Wait, so what happens if I _do_ give him something to eat?”

“Then you get to win Eddie’s affection and love.”

“Come on, man. I know you want to see this happening too. Up the stakes a little, will ya?”

“How about _you_ suggest some ideas around here?”

Another cloud intrudes into their conversation, loitering around. When Richie finally smiles at Stan, the shadows of the leaves from the branch above them throws a cloak over most of Richie’s face. In that moment, Stan thought that Richie looked like the devil himself. In that moment, Stan thought that nothing good could come from this.

“Actually,” Richie says, eerily calm, “I have an idea.”

In that moment, Stan regretted taking on the bet.

**Author's Note:**

> Experimenting! I've never done a 5+1 fic before and it was harder than I expected.. 🤔 but really fun to write! Title taken from Taylor Swift's Don't Blame Me ☺️ I've been in a TS phase lately. Thank you S for reading this through for me and giving me the confidence to leave +0.5 in.
> 
> Recently, I met someone I used to like again at work. Funny how life works that we're back here again and you're a lot more fun to talk to now! So thank you for the days I sang and danced to Sparks Fly in my hall room, a song I still associate with you because of how happy you used to make me.


End file.
